


Forge and Flames

by Tilltheendwilliwrite



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilltheendwilliwrite/pseuds/Tilltheendwilliwrite
Summary: When Roach throws a shoe, Geralt and Jaskier must deviate to a small, podunk town in the middle of nowhere. While Jaskier is less than pleased, Geralt catches a scent he hasn't smelt in many long years. But after his last leave-taking, will he be welcomed with open arms, or need to dodge the hammer thrown at his head.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 254
Collections: Explicit Stories





	Forge and Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: all the smut
> 
> This is for all the people begging on Tumblr, but mostly for Tiku. You know what you need to do now.🥰

* * *

Roach threw a shoe.

Geralt tried hard not to blame the animal; it wasn't the horse's fault the last blacksmith had done shoddy work on The Witcher's mount. Still, they were in the middle of fucking nowhere, the only place even relatively close was a village called Cantor, and Jaskier would not shut up.

"Cantor is a dank little hole with a mediocre tavern and no lodging. Why can't we push on for Shurn? Oh, Shurn! Now there is a town worthy of my talents! The inns are of the finest quality; the bars have the best drink, even the whore houses have women that smell of the sweetest oils. We could live like kings!"

Geralt rolled his eyes. "And make Roach lame getting there. We go to Cantor."

Jaskier’s long-suffering sigh preceded the strum of his lute and mutter of his voice as he began composing something new. 

Geralt exchanged a look with Roach. It was going to be a long walk.

***

Cantor was nothing more than a dozen buildings crowded around the main street with shacks that doubled as houses spaced out beyond them. It was poor. Dirt poor. Likely the poorest place he had ever known and Geralt had seen poor places before. 

“Good… gods. What is that _ stench _?” Jaskier muttered a perfumed handkerchief held to his nose.

“Pigs.” Geralt nodded toward the pen on the outskirts of the village. 

“Ew,” Jaskier curled up his nose. 

But pigs were not what drew Geralt’s attention. At the far end of the street, a large building stood out from the rest. Not because it was any better constructed or cleaner but from the whispers of magic that could not be contained. 

Roach whickered. 

“Hm.” Geralt pulled a small coin purse from his belt and slapped it to the center of Jaskier’s chest. “Go. Find a place to stay for the night. Do not look for me. I'll find you.”

“Geralt?” the man frowned.

Geralt did not take his eyes from the smithy at the end of the street. “Do as I tell you.” He used the voice that brooked no argument.

Though confused, Jaskier had been with him long enough to know when to leave things alone and hurried off to find the tavern.

This time, Geralt hoped he listened and stayed away. What came next would either be a reunion to remember, or the beating of his life, neither of which he wanted the bard witnessing. 

He started down the street with Roach, the horse eager, ears pricked, likely picking up on the magic gently wafting down the road. It smelled of sweet hay and clover, of fresh, crisp water, and windblown meadows. 

The scent was so… _wrong _for the dingy little village, but Geralt couldn’t help but inhale deeply.

He tied Roach outside and made his way cautiously to the open doors to peer into the dim interior. The only light came from the blazing forge and the gaps in the wood construction that allowed in slivers of sunlight.

“Geralt of Rivia. What a surprise,” drawled from the darkness in a woman’s sultry voice. 

“Is it a good surprise?” he asked, hands held out to show he was unarmed. 

She walked out past the forge - a giant round thing beneath an enormous cone shaped hood where embers burned and sparks shot into the sky as wood burst and broke down, setting red flames dancing and the firelight playing over sharp features - while wiping her soot stained hands on a rag. “I haven’t decided yet.” Eyes the colour of the moon, a silver so clear he’d once referred to them as diamond eyes, pierced him from across the room.

“Deva,” he bowed his head, trying for a smile. 

She arched a dark brow. “Where is he?”

Geralt sighed. “Here.” He motioned to the horse, waiting at the rail, digging a hole in his impatience. 

“What did you do?” She stalked toward him and outside to cluck softly to Roach.

Geralt's eyes closed on the pure scent of her when she passed him. Not one spark of fire or smoke soiled her natural fragrance. “He threw a shoe. The last smithy did not have your ability to separate the animal’s needs from his dislike of the rider.”

She shot him a glare. “His name.”

“Deva, that isn’t necessary,” Geralt tried to placate her as she untied Roach and led the horse into the forge. “I’m sure he’s perfectly adequate for anyone who isn’t a Witcher.”

She stopped long enough to stare at him. “You can tell me or Roach will. Either way, I’ll have his name.”

And Roach would tell her. The traitor.

“Menliak of Bon Blarth,” he sighed, knowing it was better if he simply gave in.

Deva picked up a small hammer as she led Roach to a stall, pressed her lips to its face, whispered something too low for Geralt to hear and threw it across the smithy into the fire. Sparks exploded, rising up in a shower of light.

He winced, knowing she’d just taken Menliak’s ability to work a forge from him.

She was no simple blacksmith, but Deva of the Yarrow Fields, Horse Lady, Goddess of the Forge, and not to be trifled with. Menliak had not just screwed with Geralt when he’d caused Roach to throw a shoe, but had almost made lame one of the Horse Lady’s long lived mounts. 

Roach had not been with him since the moment of his birth as a Witcher, but the last century or so, yes. A gift of a companion that Geralt would not out live any time soon.

Was it any wonder he talked to his horse?

He could see now why Cantor remained even though the dirt poor village should have long ago died out. 

Cantor was home to a Goddess.

She stripped the tack from Roach and put him in a stall full of deep straw. Mountain fresh water filled his bucket and sweet feed the trough. Tonight, the gelding would live like the king Jaskier wished to be. 

Deva turned, pulling the blue handkerchief off her hair and letting the thick locks swing free. They burst with reds and golds, her hair as fiery as her forge. 

She was just as he remembered her. Tall and sinewy with muscle barely contained in scandalously tight pants and a vest that covered only what needed covering, leaving her back and arms exposed. She swung a hammer as her day job and had arms that proved her strength. She crossed them now over her ample breasts, increasing the generous swell of cleavage before narrowing her eyes. “You stink.”

Geralt blinked. “Thank you?”

Deva rolled her eyes. “Past the forge, through the door on the left. The bath water is heated via pipes from the forge. Go.”

Again, he knew better than to argue. She wasn’t kicking him out and taking back her horse, so he counted himself lucky, offered another short bow, and did as told. 

There was little left in this world that frightened Geralt, perhaps nothing scared him anymore, but he would always hold the highest regard for a woman who could swing a hammer that could - very likely - split his skull.

***

The bath was not what he’d expected, but the circular tub of rich wood deep enough for him to soak to his neck and cover his knees made his day. The jars of soap that smelled like leather and something masculine, bergamot maybe, heady with musk were also appreciated. 

So far, she treated him as a guest though he knew that could change in a heartbeat. They’d yet to speak about what happened the last time they’d been together, and Geralt was only fifty percent certain she wouldn’t try and crack his head like a melon.

He hadn’t meant to burn her barn down. It was a complete accident. And really, if the Alp hadn’t knocked a torch into the hay wagon then fallen against it, the wagon wouldn’t have rolled into Deva’s barn and burned it down. It truly was all the Alp’s fault.

Still, he’d killed the monster, made sure her horses were not trapped, grabbed Roach, and gotten the hell out of there before Deva returned, the only time he’d run from a situation like a coward.

The door opened, and he sat up, surprised when Deva came in, climbed up to sit on the side of the bath, hiked the skirt of the body clinging dress she now wore over her knees, and slipped her feet into the water to rest them against his thigh. She looked him over, cocked her head, and met his eyes.

“You have more scars than when last we met.”

“I have been through more battles.” He dared to curl his fingers around her ankle. Her skin was golden brown, beautiful and soft, and Geralt couldn’t help but skim it gently on the way to her knee. “That colour suits you.”

She snorted. “What? Blue?” She plucked at the light linen that clung to her in the steam dampened air, showing off high, firm breasts with hard peaks. 

“Cornflower blue,” he corrected, skimming his fingers higher to touch the hem resting against her thigh. “Like the first flowers of spring.”

“Are you a romantic now, Geralt of Rivia? Has that bard you travel with softened your hard heart?” she teased.

“Jaskier’s more likely to sour my ear than soften anything.”

Her toes drifted down the inside of his thigh. “And we wouldn’t want things to be _ soft _ now, would we?” she murmured before pulling her feet from the water. “There’s food, when you’re finished.” Deva sauntered for the door, waving a hand as she went, taking his clothing and armour with her, leaving behind naught but a towel and something he couldn’t quite make out.

He arched a brow as the door clicked closed and hauled himself from the warm water. He was never quite sure what the extent of her powers were. 

The pile she left behind did have a towel and a comb as well as a pair of loose fitting white linen pants and nothing else. It appeared he was to come to dinner in very little. Promising, certainly, but he was still wary of retribution. 

The door to the forge was closed, but the one further into the home stood open, candle light flickering, beckoning him down the nondescript hallway. He walked barefoot on wood floors toward the light, cautious, quiet, wary, but when he looked through, he found the boudoir of a queen waiting for him. 

Rich silks and velvets were everywhere, shades of red and orange, gold and cream. Her scent permeated the room. Not even the heady aroma of roast meat could overpower her clean, nature scent. 

A hand touched his shoulder. 

Geralt pinned her to the wall. “You know better than that,” he murmured, watching her pupils dilate.

“And yet I continue to do it,” she smirked. 

He relaxed into her, wondering how she could be so firm and yet so soft at the same time. The top of her head came to just below his chin, and he bent slowly to press his nose to her throat and inhale. “Fuck, you smell like spring.” Every damn time.

Lightly callused hands followed the contours of his ribs and around to slide up his back. Nails flexed into his muscle. “Come. Eat.”

“I’d rather eat you,” he growled, hiking her up the wall. “Deva…”

“Share my meal, and I’ll share my bed,” she teased, stroking her hands through his hair. “The road has been long, Geralt. Rest a moment with me.”

He rolled his hips, pressing his hard cock into her soft belly, knowing no matter what they did next, that would not be going away anytime soon, but he sighed and relented. “Fine.”

She landed with a little thump and walked off, leaving him aching, annoyed, and clenching his fists. 

Deva sat - more like lounged - on a pile of pillows and beckoned him closer. Geralt lowered slowly to the cushions at her side, well aware of the tent in his pants. 

She smirked a little and handed him a goblet. "I have a question for you, Witcher," she murmured, moonshine eyes watching from behind a pewter cup.

His heart beat jumped. "My lady?"

"Did you think I'd take payment for my property out of your hide?"

He spoke his next words carefully, danger scenting the air. "I was… concerned you would be… upset by the cause of the fire."

She reached out and caught his chin, yanking him toward her. "I was _ less _ than pleased by your leave taking, not the loss of my barn. You saved the horses, killed the Alp, and protected my forge. Then you ran away."

He gulped, finding the fire she was known for now raging in her eyes. "You could split my skull with very little effort. I thought it best to wait until your ire was less… full."

She arched a sculpted brow, held his gaze for one long moment more in which the heat of her forge burned inside him, then snorted and shoved his face away. "You're full of shit, Geralt."

He gave a silent sigh, knowing he was forgiven. "I did return to Palantia, but you had already moved on."

She scoffed and threw a roll at him. "I was there fifty years, Witcher. You could have returned in one, and I would have forgiven you."

"I was busy." She glared at him. He pointed to three different scars. "I was needed elsewhere."

Her pout was still as pretty as ever, and he bit ravenously into the roll, knowing he would need every ounce of energy he could claim. 

They ate and drank, exchanging tales of their time apart until the low table before them had the look of a slaughter gone wrong, and the wine bottle stood empty. 

He admired her in the candlelight, the way the flames sent answering colours dancing in her hair. How the rich copper tone of her skin appeared to shimmer with an inner radiance.

She was a Goddess, and he nothing but a mutant, yet when he reached out to grasp her nape and draw her closer, she came willingly. A Goddess thought him worthy to touch her, worship her, bring her pleasure. 

On long nights during lonely hunts, such knowledge kept him warm.

"Lady Deva," he murmured, "I am bewitched by you again."

She smiled and cupped his cheek. "Perhaps this time, you won't be gone so long."

A quiet hum of agreement left him as he urged her near and kissed her slowly, drawing out the moment, willing it to last. Her lips were sweet with wine, and he savoured them, sipping gently, knowing she would eventually grow impatient. 

Deva was not a passive lover.

A small press of his tongue parted her lips, and he sank into her warm depths. Here the wine was richer, sweetened with the berries of her natural flavour. He drank long and deep, growing rougher, harsher, battling her twisting tongue until they both broke away panting. 

He released her long enough to haul himself upright and drag her from the pillows. He could have her there, he knew, but her bed was feet away, begging to be used.

She let her gown fall, and he groaned. Perfection. Round of hip and ass, thick enough to grasp a healthy handful, small of waist, and breasts built to suffocate a man. He palmed one, unable not to, wanting desperately to know the feel of her again; the taste of her. 

Deva sighed, a happy hum and swayed against him. Her perpetually soot blackened nails dug into his arms, but Geralt cared little for mild pain when he could yank her to him and suck a dark mark into her throat.

"Geralt!" sounded so sweet from her lips.

His pants fell when she shoved them down, and he lifted her without effort, her legs leaping to his waist. 

"You have so much to make up for, Witcher," she whispered and bit down on his earlobe. “Eighty years apart, you bastard!" 

He chuckled and knelt on her bed, laying her beneath him. "Forgive me?"

“Prove you haven’t lost your touch, and I’ll consider it.”

“It’s to be a challenge then?” he smirked, leaving lazy kisses behind as he worked his way down her body. 

Her eyes gleamed silver and white. "Isn't it always?"

He smirked and attended to the mounds that overflowed his fingers. Lush. She was always so soft. Giving. Responsive. Hard beads were made plump between his finger and thumb, and grew more so when he plucked and sucked and worried them with his lips.

He adored how beautifully smooth her skin was. How soft. He’d had milk pale women, and rough, sun bronzed women, but Deva and her rich copper flesh always left him hungry for more. She was baked by her forge, her skin holding the heat and colour of the metal she worked. 

The shimmer of copper on the curve of her breast. The glint of iron in the strength of her abdomen. Steel in the muscles of her arms and long length of her legs. And gold only revealed itself when he settled to his knees and pushed hers apart, finding her hidden treasure.

The sparkle called to him, but the rich scent of honey drew him in. "I've missed you, Lady of the Yarrow Fields."

She hummed, a smug smile on her mouth before he set his to slick, golden lips and swept his tongue through swollen folds.

"Geralt!" she gasped and arched, her hands going to his hair. She liked it soft and loose, and he'd left it that way for her. "I've missed your skills."

He chuckled and took his thumb to her hard bundle of nerves. "Surely, you've found someone to replace me in eighty years."

Her scoff told him she hadn't, and she hefted herself up on her elbows to peer at him, kneeling on the floor between her thighs. "Ungrateful, self serving, unable to find a woman's pleasure with instructions. No stamina, no recovery time. I know stallions with more finesse."

He arched a brow. "Nice to know you consider me of higher quality than your stallions."

“You know I’ve always appreciated your ability to stud,” she teased, giving his hair a gentle tug. 

Geralt arched a brow, amused by her. “With such a fine mare, how could I go wrong?”

She clucked her tongue and chuckled, a crooked smirk on her lips. “I think that bard of yours has done you good, Geralt. You’ve a tongue sweetened by honey.”

A devilish grin spread as he ducked his head, eyes locked with hers. “This honey?”

She made no reply for his tongue found sweet treasure and stole her breath. It had been too long since last he’d been there and took his time tasting, savoring, sucking pure nectar from the moaning Goddess. She rewarded him with gentle pulls of his hair, guiding him with soft hands like she would an unbroken colt. How a lover could fail to understand the quiet directions and minute corrections he failed to understand. 

Deva was responsive, direct, and passionate. She gave much and expected much in return. It was a lesson he’d learned quickly, one he’d never forgotten, but she could be subtle in her correction. Used to her horses with their sensitive mouths and responsive sides, her touch was - perhaps - too soft for those untrained. 

But Geralt had learned to read her as easily as he did Roach, and mayhaps that was the difference. He could see and feel the subtle change in a woman’s body, adjust and learn what each prefered. No one ever complained they’d left his bed unsatisfied. 

They may call him a monster in the streets, but they screamed his name loudly between the sheets.

Deva began to writhe as he swept his tongue through soft, slick folds, catching but only teasing the little nub at her apex. A quick jerk of his hair warned him she was losing patience, but he wasn’t yet ready to give up his place. 

“Be still,” he purred, peering up at her, watching her breasts heave with every ragged breath. 

“Bully!” she hissed. “You’ve gotten better at that.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he chuckled, eyes locked with hers when he flattened his tongue to her swollen flesh and slowly, so slowly, circled her hard jewel. 

“Geralt!” she whined, flooding his tongue with more sweet honey.

He rumbled another chuckle, amused by her begging. She’d never been one to beg, but knowing there was very likely a forge hammer somewhere near to hand, he lightly dragged his fingers down her slick petals and sank them deep inside her. 

The plunge set her keening, body lifting, back arched before she collapsed into silks and velvets. “Please,” sang on a soft breeze from her lips.

She really must have missed him. Deva never said please. 

Slowly, he drew his fingers out and curled them back in, twisting his wrist to drag them along the front and then back of her channel, feeling strong walls squeeze and contract on his digits. He sucked her hard clit, pulling and tugging, flicking the tip of his tongue over the exposed nerves. 

When she bucked, her legs wrapping around him, Geralt laid his hand on her belly and held her down. She moaned his name. He growled against her, and her thighs began to quake. Her hands flew to her breasts, tugging, twisting, pulling on her fat nipples. 

“Deva,” he purred, increasing the speed in which he fucked her, adding a third finger to stretch her open. “Come for me.” The moment his tongue flicked over her, her body seized up tight, and the walls fluttering around his fingers gripped him like a vice. 

She threw her head back and cried out, hands still on her chest, neck straining. 

He pulled against her grip, dragging his fingers out and forcing them back in, causing her legs to clamp hard around his shoulders as her climax rolled on and on until finally she fell to the bed and her thighs unlocked. 

“Geralt,” she sighed, a smile flirting with her lips. "I may have pulled something in my neck."

He chuckled as he drew away, licking the last of her offering from his hand, then tenderly cleaned her thighs and swollen core with his tongue, giving her time to recover. 

His cock was so hard it hurt, and he wrapped a hand around himself, squeezing to relieve some of the ache before pushing off his knees. 

She wiggled backward, causing the parts of her that could jiggle to sway with the motion. Enticing though it was, he didn’t need any added encouragement to climb between her legs, wrap his arm under her, and lift her up into the pillows. 

A quiet purr escaped her. She always enjoyed a show of strength. 

“That has been missing from my life for eighty years,” she sighed, her hands running over him, touching his chest and back, finding new and old scars.

“Are you finished with me then?” he teased. “Should I go?”

Her legs slammed closed around his hips, jerking him down. “You do, and I’ll castrate you!”

All humor died between them. “You forget, Deva. They did as much when I was made a Witcher.”

Sorrow washed over her features and filled her eyes with shine as she cupped his face between her palms. “Geralt, I’m sorry. Those were unkind, thoughtless words.”

He sighed and rested their foreheads together. “I know.”

She flipped him to his back between one breath and the next. “I will make it up to you.”

There was no need to ask how, when her hips began to roll, and slick lips dragged the length of his cock. 

The contrast between their skin was never more apparent then when his hands landed on her hips, not to guide, but simply to hold. He was not so foolish to try and control the Horse Lady when she wished to ride. No, when that happened, one laid back and simply enjoyed the experience. 

Powerful thighs squeezed him when she rose up, one hand resting on his chest, the other reaching for his cock. Geralt moaned when she touched him, callused hand gliding up and down his shaft, spreading her slick over his head and mixing with the fluid beading at his tip. 

Her eyes sparkled like diamonds, her skin gleamed copper and bronze, the gold betwixt her thighs glinted before swallowing him, taking and squeezing down his hard length. 

She moaned and panted when she lowered back to his hips, taking all of him in a way few could. “Fuck,” she hissed. Her head rolled back and fire bright hair cascaded down her spine to tickle his thighs. “So _ big _.”

Geralt could barely breathe. He’d forgotten the scorching heat. The slick wetness. The way she took all of him in a perfect fit. “Deva,” fell from his lips, beeseaching, begging her to move. 

A goddess sat, burning bright, impaled on his cock, and when she smiled down at him, Geralt knew peace for one blinding moment. 

When she began to move, it was slowly, like watching waves roll against the shore. A lift of shoulders, a jut of breasts, an undulation through the torso causing her skin to fire and glow. Lastly, did she roll her hips and slide her delectable warmth up his shaft, causing pale flesh to gleam, light reflecting off the slick left behind 

"Deva." He squeezed her waist and made her smile. 

Her soot blackened nails dragged over his chest, tracing hills and valleys, finding scars. She touched him without urgency, rode him like a lady at her leisure. White teeth nipped into lips stained dark with wine. 

She was burnished copper and bronze, a woman of precious metal, a goddess like he'd never met again. In eighty years, he had been unable to forget her. Watching her rise and fall above him, he wondered how he could have been so foolish as to make her wait for his return. 

She bent over him, hands to either side of his head, her rhythm strong but still unhurried. Firebrand curls fell around them, a curtain that tinted the light the world inside a stunning rose. 

"Deva," he whispered and cupped her nape. 

He rolled her beneath him, hand tight in her hair, and ravaged her mouth. Teeth, tongue, and lips, he used them all to worship her, to taste and savor. He drowned in her but kept her rhythm, driving his hips down with a clench of buttocks.

The hum of approval and quiet moan had him pinning her beneath his heavy frame. Geralt caught the hand questing at his side, finding and learning all his injuries, all his scars. He linked their fingers together as he nipped her lip, tugged it, and raised her hand to the pillows above her head.

When he released her hair to catch the second and place it beside its twin, she chuckled, eyes alight with amusement. 

"Wasn't I making something up to you?"

"No, Deva. I'm making up lost time… to you." He held her hands above her head with one of his, and began a gentle exploration of her body. 

The places he remembered still made her moan, while still others made her cry out, or squirm, or beg for him to take her harder, faster. But he had her now, the Horse Lady was bridled. She wasn't tamed, no, he would never seek to break her fiery spirit, but he left a mark here and there, setting sharp teeth into her shoulder and making her squeal. 

He sucked a bruise into the flesh of her breast, pulled and plucked and nibbled her nipples. He bathed the valley between with his tongue, all while continuing to roll his hips an inch or two forward and back, in the same lazy fashion.

Geralt released her wrists to again cup her nape. He dragged her thigh up over his hip until he could drape it on his elbow, and spread his knees, increasing the depth and force of his thrusts. 

"Did you miss me, Deva? Did you miss this?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Yes," she admitted, her hands finding purchase in his hair. 

"Did you suffer from lack of a good fuck?" He tightened his fist and pulled her head back to rake his teeth down her throat. 

Her lashes fluttered closed, and her mouth fell open. "Yes!"

He growled and withdrew fully only to slam back in. Her scream filled him with pride. "They cannot give you what I can, my lady. No one ever will."

He said no more as he drove her into the bedding. His heart pounded, cock throbbed. Wine misted lightly along the edge of his senses. 

Geralt found her mouth in the haze of lust and sweat, and brushed his nose over hers. Open mouthed, they breathed each others air, tasted the salt of the others skin, and shared the others moans. 

Desire was a living thing inside Geralt, pumping fire through his veins. Her body sucked and pulled at him, flexed and clenched. He would lose his mind soon, but not before her.

He leaned back, lifted her hips, and fucked hard into her willing body. She snaked her hand down between them and worked herself with her fingers. She knew what she needed, and Geralt never begrudged her that little push. 

A tilt of her hips made her gasp and him smile. Yes, he remembered that sweet spot inside her that made her come with all the force of a raging Striga. 

"Deva," he growled and waited for her to look at him. Diamond bright eyes opened and drifted to his face. "Come for me."

Geralt could never tell if it was a command or a plea, but she always shattered, fell apart, convulsed and shrieked, screaming his name as her channel closed hot and slick around him.

He threw his head back and slammed forward, fucking hard and fast, taking his, rising to the edge. The sweet release of pleasure, one of the few emotions left to him, built in the base of his cock. 

It burned in the best way, raced up his spine and burst from him on a shout that was more a howl. A half dozen hard thrusts milked him dry, but the cascade effect of the release pummeled his body and rode his veins. 

He pulled away from her, spent, and lowered her hips to the bed before falling down beside her. Not expecting to land on something hard, he grunted and dragged the forge hammer out of the sheets before setting it on the floor.

"Wondered where that went," she mumbled, unconcerned if the look on her face could be believed. 

A smile graced her swollen lips, her eyes remained half mast. She lay naked and relaxed, hands resting on her belly and knees bent toward him.

Geralt pulled the sheet over their rapidly cooling bodies and laid a kiss on her shoulder. "Am I forgiven for leaving?"

"Oh, darling. You've only begun your penance. The night is long," she smiled. 

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his body. "I was hoping you'd say that."

***

"Ghastly place," Jaskier bitched as they made their way out of Cantor. "Three days in that flea infested hovel, and you! You just up and disappear! I would have thought you left if Roach hadn't still been in the smithy. Where in the world were you?"

Geralt smirked and rubbed Roach's cheek as he led the gelding away from Cantor. "Catching up with an old friend."

"And you couldn't have invited me along? I didn't think you had friends. Well, besides me, of course. But perhaps your friend would have liked hearing your songs, did you think about that, Geralt? Hmm? Did you?"

He patted Roach again and kept walking.

"Are you listening, Geralt? Geralt? Geralt!" Jaskier huffed. "Fine, don't tell me about this "friend." Can you at least explain why it is you're walking funny?"

He exchanged a smirk with Roach. "I helped a stallion service a mare. It was a tough job, but my friend required an experienced hand to get it done right."

"Oh." Jaskier deflated. "Did you get kicked?"

Geralt paused on the hill to look back at Cantor and smiled. "Something like that."


End file.
